


Shadows In The Night

by cullenlovesmen



Series: Prompt fills [11]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Background f!Tabris/Leliana, Don't copy to another site, Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle, Eavesdropping, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alistair (Dragon Age), Secret Crush, implied threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: Alistair really didn't mean to find out about Sten and Zevran, but now that he knows, he cannot unlearn it — and perhaps he's a bit curious.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Sten, Zevran Arainai/Sten/Alistair
Series: Prompt fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1258421
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	Shadows In The Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McLavellan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McLavellan/gifts).



> This is a VERY FLIMSY prompt fill. Honestly, I just needed an excuse. McLavellan prompted: "Azalea- fragile and ephemeral passion; Kingcup- youth, innocence, dawn!"

The night is clear, stars poking from the sky with a merry twinkle. Both moons are out, half-lidded gazes staring down from opposing sides of the small clearing they're camped on. Alistair’s eyes ache with sand, but rest is elusive. It's been this way for weeks now; sleepless nights and exhausting days, sword meeting darkspawn in lucky strikes while his mind is occupied. Restless. 

The campfire still burns, despite the party having withdrawn into tents long ago, and its crackle and the hoots of owls are all that penetrates the silence of night. He needs a leak, and then he'll try the sleep thing again, perhaps this time catching a wink or two before Tabris howls them awake at dawn. 

The thick shrubbery tickles his thighs as he takes one last look around the camp; empty. Good. He parts the vegetation and steps into the forest, blinking at the darkness, and goes about his business shielded by tall tree trunks. 

His gaze sweeps the tents again as he returns to the clearing, and that's when he sees it. Movement; a silhouette drawn against Sten's tent. He halts and reaches for the hilt of his sword, but of course it isn't there — what an idiot he was to leave it beneath his pillow. Actually, what idiots they all were, camping here where any highwaymen could stumble upon them and rob them blind. 

He'd told them they should go deeper into the forest, hadn't he? But did they listen? No, of course not. Nobody ever bloody did. 

Sten probably won't welcome his help, but Alistair still crouches and advances the Qunari's tent, taking soundless steps on the wet grass. Fists bunch on his sides, jaw tightens, and thighs tense as he prepares to strike down the intruder with his bare hands. Is it just this one, or are there many? He sees no signs of others, hears nothing. 

Not before he's close enough to hear the rustling from Sten's tent, and a strangled sound he barely recognises. "Mi amor…" 

He stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening; he doesn’t need to know the words to lift the meaning behind them. The silhouette moves, drawn clearly by the campfire glowing on the other side, a rhythmic up and down. Strong arms grab it by the waist, and there's a grunt and a sigh as the silhouette bobs faster. 

Andraste's bloody knickers. 

Alistair swallows around a lump in his throat and hastens back into his tent, certain he will never sleep again. 

  


* * *

  


He'd be lying if he said he'd never noticed before, but now Alistair’s eyes roam with newfound interest. 

He tries to stop them from finding the points where Sten's muscles dip and connect, tries to turn away from the sheen of sweat gleaming in the hollows, tries to ignore the way Sten's skin glistens in the sun. The grim look of determination as the Qunari swings his sword, wreaking havoc in his wake. 

He finds a new appreciation for the way Zevran flies into battle, the straps of his kilt flapping as he dances with his blades. He tries not to take in the graceful figure, how the elf arches as he dodges blow after blow, how he's a blur of oiled leather, bronze skin and golden hair. The elated grin as he pants for breath. 

Maker, but Alistair is messed up. 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the path as they travel, hyper aware of the rogue and warrior following his and Tabris's footsteps. There's been nothing since that night in camp, not the slightest sign of anything unusual hanging between Sten and Zevran, and he's starting to think he's imagined the whole thing. 

They draw to a halt on the path, Tabris's hand in the air signalling them all to wait. Her eyes roam the line of the forest, brows knitting, but Alistair sees nothing. Instead, he flicks a glance behind him; Sten's hand is on Zevran's chest. As though stopping him, protecting him. The other lingers on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at the slightest provocation. Zevran's legs are tensed, a brow raised at the Qunari, and that's all Alistair sees before Tabris calls out. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" 

A group of ragtag mercenaries emerges from the forest, and when Tabris refuses to turn over their belongings, a scuffle ensues. Alistair blocks an arrow and yells out a warning; Sten rushes off into the forest while Alistair looks for an opening in the mercenary leader's stance. His opportunity arrives soon enough, and with the boss man felled, the remaining bandits scatter into the four winds, leaving them to catch their breaths. 

Zevran goes through the dead bodies, picking up swords and necklaces, bagging them with little ceremony. A gaping wound stretches from his shoulder down his arm, but the elf pays it no mind. From the corner of his eye, Alistair sees Sten draw close, hands inspecting the wound tenderly. The elf doesn't flinch; doesn't do much at all, not even when Sten produces a bandage and ties it tightly to stop the bleeding. 

Sten's fingers linger longer than necessary, and Zevran does nothing to brush him off. A sliver of a smile twists his otherwise solemn lips, and that's when Alistair realises he's staring.

  


* * *

  


He erects his tent close to Sten's that night, for reasons he cares not examine. There's been little sleep in the last few days, and whatever it is that has his head reeling seems all the more powerful now that he's discovered this secret. It's a feeling, for sure, but not one that gets better upon poking and prodding. Alistair has nearly two decades of experience on how to brush such discomforts under the carpet and forget they ever existed. 

But that doesn't help him rest. 

Grasshoppers chirp in the night, barely audible over the crackling campfire. Alistair lay on his back, then on one side, before finally giving in and turning towards Sten's tent. An ache spreads in his chest as silent footsteps approach from the outside, halting before they reach Alistair's humble abode. 

Of course they wouldn't come here. Who would? Tabris and Leliana share a tent now, Shale spends her nights hibernating in place, and Morrigan prefers her own company. Not that Alistair would wish otherwise, eugh. Wynne retires early with her tomes, and Dog follows her everywhere, even into her tent. 

Alistair is the odd one out, as usual. 

"Kadan."

The simple, strange word rouses Alistair from his self-pity. There's a rustling sound, then a stillness, and soon Zevran is talking, his words muffled against something. Alistair wonders if his face is pressed against Sten's chest, or neck, or if Sten already has him pinned to the bed roll with his face down. 

Maker have mercy. This has to stop. 

But what can he do right at this moment? Tear into the night with some flimsy excuse at the ready? Try stuffing his ears with something and pray for some sleep? 

It's all bloody useless. He shouldn't have camped this close. 

While he wallows in his own stupidity, muffled laughter sounds from Sten's tent. A little later, there's a groan and some more ruffling, followed by a wet squelching sound. Alistair’s heart drums in his ears and throbs in his cock as the sound penetrates the linen walls over and over, seasoned with repressed sighs and unintelligible murmurs. 

Pictures fill his head. Zevran on top, impaling himself with a lopsided grin; Sten with his eyes darkened, arms and legs quivering with strain; the two of them moving in unison, sloppy and wild, Zevran's hair sticking to his cheeks, Sten's grip on him white-knuckled. Both of them messy and glorious, drawing in those panting breaths with hunger. 

"Kadan." 

There is that strange word again, and Sten's voice breaks around it, as though begging Zevran for something. Alistair was always cursed with an active imagination, and he can see Zevran's answering smirk with his mind's eye, a gleam flashing as he looks down at Sten. He slows down, deliberately drawing them back from the knife's edge. 

Alistair wants to see it for real. Wants to feel Zevran's heat around him, wants to grip those hipbones that peek from underneath his leathers when he fights, wants to cause the smile on that face. 

But Maker, he wants to be him, too. To be the one descending on Sten's body, feeling the breach and stretch as Sten pushes inside. Those long fingers on him, guiding him, soothing and demanding. Dark eyes fixed on him, watching his every move. 

How would it feel? He has no idea, but surely there's a reason men want it like that. 

He grips his cock as Sten's moan makes it to his ears, and just like that, he's overwhelmed. A tug, and then another, and hot liquid splashes on his fingers, blurring his vision. 

The wet sounds from Sten's tent reach a crescendo mere moments later, and all is silent again - all aside from Alistair's mind. He's never been this ashamed in his entire life, and he'll never set up his tent this close again.

  


* * *

  


It turns out there’s no closing this box once it’s opened. Alistair’s tried everything; imploring Tabris that Sten and Zevran should watch the camp while the rest of them visit Denerim; keeping his distance after Tabris disagreed; directing his gaze elsewhere when one or the other enters his line of sight. It's all useless. He doesn't miss the little looks they exchange, or the way Zevran leans on Sten to rid a pebble from his shoe. 

All of them are gathered around the campfire, bowls of thin soup in their laps, and Alistair tries to ignore the way Sten's hand slithers out of sight, reappearing on Zevran's back. His gaze snaps to his side to find Morrigan staring at him, a witty remark clearly waiting on her tongue. But she swallows it and turns away. Huh. 

Wynne stretches her back luxuriously before making her excuses, the dog tagging along. The merchant and his son withdraw as well, leaving only the young sitting by the fire. Alistair allows himself a second helping, following Tabris's cue, but the elf downs her bowl with a long slurp and trails after Leliana, disappearing into their tent.

Alistair catches Zevran looking at him, a strange gleam in his eye, and that's when Morrigan bails him. Never did he think he'd miss her presence, but these are strange times. 

He rushes with his food, the sounds from his mouth sloppy and gross, but he can't be finished fast enough. Twin gazes bore into him as heat blooms on his cheeks, the hair at the back of his neck standing in alarm. 

He's been staring, hasn't he? He's done his best, but it's nowhere near enough to hide this strange fixation with the two of them. This is why he doesn't play cards; he doesn't have the face for it. 

"So, Alistair," Zevran begins, and Alistair’s mouth is too full to protest whatever's coming, "Sten and I have noticed you watching."

Alistair's eyes linger on Zevran's face for only a moment. Long enough to see no disapproval. Sten's expression reveals nothing, but now his fingers play with Zevran's hair while his eyes stay fixed on Alistair. 

"I— I can explain." A nervous chuckle breaks free and he curses himself, curses his bottomless stomach as well as his hunger for things he knows nothing of. 

"You are curious." 

It's the first he's heard Sten speak that day. It's not a question, so Alistair doesn't respond. 

Zevran smiles, only a sliver of mockery colouring his delight. Alistair braces for an impact — of any kind, really — when Zevran’s brow quirks and a hand extends towards him; “Come. So we may sate your curiosity, yes?”

The flames have tamed to burning embers, the red light dancing on Zevran’s face as he waits patiently. Throat clenched and heart running wild, Alistair sets aside his bowl with a shaking hand, the other reaching for Zevran’s.

  


* * *

  


Tabris really needed to pee, but now she’s standing by the dying embers, poised for battle; daggers ready to fly. A cacophony of sounds drifts from Sten’s tent opposite hers; groans, whines, an assortment of wet squelches. Is he wounded? Is that blood splashing? Oh, Maker, maybe Alistair had been right; their position is vulnerable for attack.

And yet… something holds her back.

Leliana’s hand on her arm, now that she focuses. She steals a bewildered glance at her lover, blinking sleep from her eyes. Leliana smiles, a brow raised mischievously. “Let it go, love. It’s nothing you should worry about.” 

Outraged, she prepares to argue, but just then a wail pierces her ears. Heat rushes to her cheeks; there’s no mistaking that voice. 

The demands of her body momentarily forgotten, she lets her lover pull her back into the tent — though she’s certain she’ll never sleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments (of all shapes and sizes) and kudos always welcome; they make my day. <3


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